


A Gilded Masquerade

by Sam_Nook



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1780s fashion, 1783, Historical Hetalia, Historical Inaccuracy, Paris - Freeform, Revolutionary War, fashion - Freeform, histober2020, inktober but its writing, inktober2020, prompt was fashion, reflective, treaty of paris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:42:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26867596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam_Nook/pseuds/Sam_Nook
Summary: Francis laid a comforting hand on Alfred's shoulder, careful not to ruin the coat's crisp golden collar. It would be a shame to destroy his own work before Alfred was paraded to the world. "Do not be nervous, dear America. You have already won. The hard part is over already, is it not?"
Relationships: America & France (Hetalia)
Kudos: 16





	A Gilded Masquerade

**Author's Note:**

> Histober/Inktober 2020 Day Six: fashion
> 
> This occurs during the signing of the 1783 Treaty of Paris at the end of the Revolutionary War between the newly independent thirteen colonies and England. I apologize if Francis seems out of character, he is hard to write.

"Is this necessary?" 

Francis watched Alfred uncomfortably shift under the soft velvet and silk fabrics. It was out of place, Francis decided, but it suited him. The blues of the coat shone in the color of his eyes, the color of the skies, and the gold trim matched the hair tucked back. Alfred was natural; his skin tan from work in the sun and his clothes homemade, but he was nothing but delicate in front of Francis. 

_A job well done,_ Francis noted with satisfaction, _an American Europeanized, at least for the day._

"It's so..." Alfred trailed off as he picked at the golden trim along the coat's hem. 

Francis doesn't chastise him; the boy isn't used to it, "European," he finished. 

"Lavish," Francis isn't sure if he was being corrected, but he let it go. 

Francis watched Alfred study himself in the mirror. He stood both bold and uncertain. His hands were calloused, and his face freckled, the only hint that Alfred truly didn't belong with him, with the rich European nations. Francis wondered how long this extravagant facade would last before Alfred sought out the worn and rough homemade clothes he had arrived wearing in Paris. 

Perhaps that was America's charm, the beauty in the simplicity of the freedom to make and be yourself. Any man, despite his position in life, could become his own man. In Europe, that freedom didn't exist. 

"It's nearly time," Alfred whispered, a hint of nervousness in his voice. 

Francis laid a comforting hand on Alfred's shoulder, careful not to ruin the coat's crisp golden collar. It would be a shame to destroy his own work before Alfred was paraded to the world. "Do not be nervous, dear America. You have already won. The hard part is over already, is it not?"

Alfred didn't answer, Francis understood. 

The carriage ride was tense, at least to Alfred, and Francis watched with amusement as he steeled himself outside the door. Francis gave him one last look, somewhere between pity and encouragement. 

"Be bold, watch your tongue, and do not apologize for what you have done." Francis advised, "you have hurt England, we both knew this before the war, and that may cloud your judgment. You have a good heart, America, but do not show it for England." 

Alfred nodded, squared his shoulders, and made his entrance. 

**~~**

"He's become your little project, a pony to parade to the world. How pathetic, France." Arthur found Francis in the empty courtyard. He stood rigid, defensive, and Francis offered him a languid smirk. 

"As if he wasn't yours in the first place," Francis's smug look grew, "at least he is willingly mine. You ought to learn how to listen to your colonies; I'm afraid Alfred may be the start of something."

"As if you're any better," Arthur spat. 

Francis shrugged. Arthur's waistcoat was red and gold, almost reminding him of a fire lashing out in a last attempt of dignity. Arthur's gaze is sharp, but Francis could see right through the facade. He could see the hurt. Perhaps, he has finally gained the upper hand. 

"America," Francis started, "he is something new."

"Well observed." The response was sharp but allowed Francis to continue. 

"He is different. He is not like us, caught up to our throats in greed and pride. He is not elegant, or at least in a European way; his elegance is in his hands and mind. It's simple. I think, perhaps, one day, the world will be more like him."

"If he'll survive. His people don't know what they are trying to do. They have bright minds, but what they want, no one has done that before. I wonder how long it will take before this experiment will fail." Arthur scoffed. 

Francis hummed in agreement. Alfred had told him of the plans to be a country by the people, for the people. Francis couldn't imagine it that freedom had been nothing but the thoughts of ambitious people in coffeeshops, not the foundation of a nation. 

"I have faith in him. He is determined and has proven himself already." Francis watched Arthur's expression.

"Regardless of your support, the whole world will be watching him. I wonder if he truly understands the weight on his shoulders. I believe he isn't ready for this. He does not have the experience of being a nation. Being a colony is merely the tip of the iceberg; we both know that."

"He is charming and pretty, he managed this so far, it's not hard to believe he can't do the rest. If he learned anything from you, he would succeed." 

"I suppose. It doesn't help that most of the world is eager to help him. That's the price of making enemies, I suppose." Arthur paused, staring at the ink stain on his finger from signing the treaty. "He has grown, I'll give him that." 

They were silent then, a tense semblance of peace between them. It was then that Francis could truly sense and see the hurt in Arthur's form. He would not apologize for it; he was too prideful for that, and part of him, an evil piece of him, felt a surge of glee, but he could sympathize. There was a pain in defeat and losing, Francis knew that, and Arthur had lost something important.


End file.
